


At the Bottom of the  Bottle There's a Pair of Warm Blue Eyes

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (i mean that probably applies), Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, happy feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:49:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi has been offered a Council seat. He's... not exactly ecstatic over the matter.





	At the Bottom of the  Bottle There's a Pair of Warm Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meggory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meggory/gifts).
  * Inspired by [These Circles (They're Leading Me Back To You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553304) by [Meggory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meggory/pseuds/Meggory). 



> Meggory's fic, [These Circles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553304/chapters/31099044), features a Temple-bound spymaster Qui-Gon Jinn, stuck in a time loop, trying to get General Kenobi to slow down for a day. 
> 
> This is an au of sorts. No time-loop.

 

Dex’s wasn’t a 26-hour diner, and Dex’s didn’t serve hard liquor, or nothing harder than ale and wine. _Technically._

Not so technically, if (for instance) a certain Jedi General happened to be in search of a place to hole up and drink away all memory of his last campaign, Dex was willing to make an exception, and leave him an empty seat at the counter after hours.

“What are you doing here? It’s late.”

And even, apparently, comm a friend to take them home. Of course Dex would comm _him._

Obi-Wan turned a baleful eye in the direction of that familiar voice. “Oh, it’s you,” he grumbled. “Thought you were supposed to be spy-ing on the e-ne-my.”

He was careful to separate the syllables so they wouldn’t tumble into each other. He’d meant to put more bite in the words than that, as well, but couldn’t manage it.

The root of his current problem was this: Qui-Gon was utterly devastating in civilian clothes. Dark leggings blended seamlessly into his boots and reminded Obi-Wan exactly how long and powerful those legs were. The blue tunic looked soft, so much so that Obi-Wan wanted to bury his face and hands in it; and it brought out the colour of Qui-Gon’s eyes to an absolutely breathtaking cobalt blue.

Obi-Wan swallowed, and resolutely turned his head back to stare into Dex’s deserted kitchen. The remaining overhead lights were swimming a little, just about the way they usually did when he’d drunk enough to feel good. Tonight, it wasn’t working; instead he’d ended up morose-drunk, and now Qui-Gon was here with him.

Late, indeed. It had to be third hour, at least, but Obi-Wan didn’t want to check. He’d been glancing down at his chrono every thirty seconds, before, and had gotten sick of what amounted to a pointless staring match with the glowing digits. Time stuttered by when he couldn’t sleep, and was excruciatingly slow about it.

Qui-Gon sighed, but said nothing. Obi-Wan had almost expected his former Master to coax him out of his seat and back to the Temple. Of course, Qui-Gon lived to surprise him: he slipped into the seat beside Obi-Wan instead. Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon’s shoulder brush up against his own and let his eyes fall closed, held back a shudder with a will. The man was so _warm_ …

And sitting entirely closer than necessary. Not that Obi-Wan was complaining.

“Keeping me company?” he asked instead, to distract himself.

Qui-Gon shrugged minutely. “You owe me a drink.”

Obi-Wan turned a puzzled frown on him. “What? Since when?”

Qui-Gon, however, simply reached behind the counter for a glass and gently pried the bottle out of Obi-Wan’s grasp. “You’ve been offered a Council seat,” he said. “You were so sure it would never happen.”

“And you’ve always had un- _wav_ ’ring faith in me,” Obi-Wan sighed. “In this case, I rather wish you’d been mistaken.”

Qui-Gon hummed a quiet note, undemanding but gently questioning.

Obi-Wan didn’t answer immediately. Instead he watched as the Jedi Master swirled his drink, brought it up to his lips for a small sip. Brandy wasn’t usually Qui-Gon’s first choice, but tonight he seemed to appreciate it. He sat still, savouring the liquor on his tongue for a long moment before he swallowed. Obi-Wan watched his throat move with rapt fascination.

Then Obi-Wan gave himself a mental shake and tried to restart his brain.

“I’m—not certain I should take the seat. Depa won’t take it back, of course, not after Haruun Kal. Not now that she’s chosen a Padawan, either.” He sighed. “Honestly, I’m not sure who else they could offer it to.”

Qui-Gon toyed with his glass for a moment, unreadable. “I will support you in whatever decision you make, of course. But if you choose to accept, it should not be because you think there is no one else to take the job.”

“Oh, I can think of plenty of reasons for which I _shouldn’t_ take it,” Obi-Wan huffed. “I too have a Padawan, after all. Though I suppose it _might_ be good for her, to spend some more time at the Temple. Ahsoka is - _more_ \- _than_ \- ca-pa-ble of handling the duties of a Council Padawan.”

Qui-Gon tipped his head, apparently agreeing. But the man had every faith in his Grand-Padawan, as Obi-Wan was well aware.

“But there’s still the entire 3rd Systems Army to consider—how am I to balance being a High General, leading my men _and_ serving as War Councilor? Sure, Plo manages,” Obi-Wan snorted, feeling vaguely and inexplicably jealous, “but _he_ doesn’t have a Padawan.”

Qui-Gon smothered a chuckle behind one hand and covered it with another sip of brandy. Still, he said nothing.

Obi-Wan didn’t exactly feel compelled to fill the silence, but Qui-Gon was here, and listening. And he _needed_ to talk to someone about this; someone who was not Yoda, and not Mace. He didn’t particularly feel like barging into Adi’s confidence while drunk, though he was half-certain she wouldn’t mind. But she wasn’t the sympathetic ear he truly needed, either.

No, that person was here now: sitting right beside him, being warm and distracting, and promising to stand with him to the last, unasked for.

Obi-Wan sighed, and raised his glass. “And,” he added, vaguely attempting to bring some levity back into their conversation, “I would outrank you. Gods, that’ll be— _weird._ ”

Qui-Gon shrugged. “Why? I won’t mind being under you.”

Obi-Wan choked on a mouthful of brandy, and spent a good few seconds coughing through it, sinuses burning. He waved aside Qui-Gon’s worried look—blast the man, he probably hadn’t even noticed the double entendre—but Obi-Wan couldn’t resist the hand that settled on his back. Qui-Gon hesitated at first, then began to move that warm, large hand in slow and soothing circles, and it was _bliss._

“I’m absolutely serious, however,” Qui-Gon continued, apparently oblivious to the source of Obi-Wan’s distress. “I do trust you to make decisions that concern the fate of the Order and my networks—I’d even go so far as to say there’s no one I trust more.”

Obi-Wan chuckled weakly. “Sure, no pressure,” he managed, still gasping and sounding a little strangled.

Qui-Gon made a tiny distressed noise and leaned forward to snag the bottle again, topping off Obi-Wan’s drink and handing it back to him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Obi-Wan made a dismissive noise. “Know what you meant. S’all right.”

Qui-Gon didn’t look convinced, but he gave Obi-Wan a little more time to recover his wits.

Eventually, when his own glass stood empty before him, Qui-Gon spoke again. “I always knew you would surpass me, Obi-Wan. In many ways you already have, more than once.”

Obi-Wan snorted faintly.

“I’m serious. As I said, I will support you no matter what you choose,” Qui-Gon assured him, leaning into Obi-Wan’s shoulder even more as he spoke.

The warm, clearly deliberate contact grounded Obi-Wan in a way little else could, and he was shamelessly grateful for it.

“Though,” Qui-Gon added, “I certainly reserve the right to kidnap you every now and then, to feed you and make sure you sleep.”

“Tch,” Obi-Wan spat, offended, “I’m not _that_ bad.”

“Mhm,” Qui-Gon hummed, unconcerned. “Which of us is the Order’s Spymaster? You’ll be required to spend some time on Coruscant. Don’t think you can hide from me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Obi-Wan said mildly.

Somehow, with light teasing and a few heartfelt words of reassurance, Qui-Gon had managed to dispel most of his dire thoughts. It never ceased to amaze him.

“Not that I _can_ dream,” Obi-Wan felt compelled to admit—as if he owed Qui-Gon more of an explanation for his vigil. He heaved a great sigh. “I can’t even sleep.”

Qui-Gon gave him a concerned look. “I can put you under, if you like? Be warned, before you argue—”

Obi-Wan snapped his jaws shut.

“—very good, Padawan—be warned that the Healers have given me blanket permission to sit on you, to make sure you have at least six hours of uninterrupted rest.”

“The tyrants,” Obi-Wan said, but his complaint didn’t have any real heat to it. Mostly he was thinking of being sat on and definitely not resting at all. Possibly breaking the headboard. “If it’s not too much trouble—?”

Qui-Gon smiled, seeming almost relieved.

For the first time, Obi-Wan noticed that the delicate skin under Qui-Gon’s eyes was also bruised, and his heart tightened in sympathy. “I’ve already put you out enough—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Our old couch misses you; no one sleeps on it anymore.”

“Gods, you still have that monster,” Obi-Wan chuckled. Although, he had to admit, “It's an unfairly comfortable couch.”

“Exactly. Don’t even think about disappointing the old thing.”

Obi-Wan gave in to a fit of manic giggles.

The night air was bracing. Obi-Wan felt pleasantly relaxed, having polished off the better part of a bottle of Alderaanian brandy on his own before Qui-Gon arrived. A strong gust buffeted him as they waited for an aircab, and he swayed slightly, rocking into Qui-Gon’s warmth. Behind him, Qui-Gon sighed, with a sound like a low rumble, and wrapped his arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, pulling him in.

Obi-Wan let his eyes fall closed again and tried not to shiver, nearly overwhelmed by the gesture. He knew he was touch-starved, objectively. At some point Qui-Gon must have noticed—he kept finding excuses to touch Obi-Wan or to lean into him—never not making an effort at maintaining some small kind of contact.

 _Force,_ but Obi-Wan loved him.

Of course, that was also why it was taking a great deal of Obi-Wan’s control not to simply turn into him and curl up in his arms.

Obi-Wan began talking, if only to keep his mind away from dangerous territory. “That’s the other thing,” he said. “I’ve been arguing with the Council for months—practically since this war began. Much of the time, it feels like nobody’s listening; never mind the times the Council has argued with the Admiralty and gotten nothing out of it. I’m just not sure a High Council seat will give me any more authority than I have now.”

“Is it authority you seek?” Qui-Gon asked.

Obi-Wan shot him a dirty look, or tried too. “ _Sanity_ would be nice. Less mismanagement, less meaningless death.”

“The Council does not have authority over the Admiralty, but you will be able to face them head-on. And you will find your fellow Councilors no longer able to simply give you an order and dismiss you.”

“But will that _change_ anything?”

Qui-Gon’s arm tightened around his shoulders. “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. I have always had great admiration for those who attempted to change the system from within. It takes a kind of courage and stubbornness I could never muster. The fact that you are willing to try—truly, I couldn’t be more proud of you, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan could feel a blush rising, and was grateful for the dim lighting on the landing pad. “And here I thought you’d call it a pointless endeavour.” He turned, slightly, to get a better look at Qui-Gon’s face. “ _You_ never took a Council seat.”

Qui-Gon looked strangely uneasy. “Obi-Wan—”

At that moment the aircar landed, and Qui-Gon fell silent. His arm dropped from Obi-Wan’s shoulders, which gave Obi-Wan a twinge of regret. But then Qui-Gon’s fingertips settled at the small of his back. When he followed Obi-Wan into the aircar, he sat close enough for their shoulders to touch and took Obi-Wan’s hand in his own, brushing his thumb across Obi-Wan’s knuckles. Obi-Wan made no protest, even allowed himself melt into Qui-Gon’s side.

“You feel exhausted,” Qui-Gon murmured.

Obi-Wan snorted. “Who isn’t.”

Qui-Gon’s hand tightened briefly around his own. “If I could but steal you away for a day to rest, to not be General Kenobi—to just be _Obi-Wan._ ”

“Ah, but that would be favouritism, wouldn’t it?” Obi-Wan smiled, a small, fond thing.

“How so?”

Qui-Gon even seemed honestly puzzled. Truly, it was endearing.

“I’m your former Padawan,” Obi-Wan groused. It was the most obvious thing in the world, but of course Qui-Gon could be terribly obtuse when it suited him. _Unfairly_ endearing.

“You carry a great burden,” Qui-Gon said softly, voice thick with grief. “It’s hardly favouritism to ensure you rest before it wears you thin.”

Obi-Wan was too tired to argue; his shoulders twitched in a tiny shrug. “I only do what is asked of me,” he said quietly, a faint protest at best.

Qui-Gon simply pressed his lips to the crown of Obi-Wan’s head in reply. He said nothing for the remainder of their flight back to the Temple hangar.

When they disembarked, Qui-Gon paused near the edge of the landing platform and turned to look out at the brightly lit city, in the direction of the Nature Reserve. Obi-Wan often thought he had an inner compass that pointed directly towards _green things._ “You can refuse, you know. I don’t just mean the Council seat; you need not accept everything that is offered to you.”

Obi-Wan treated his former Master to a wry, indulgent look. “Pot and kettle, Spymaster.”

Qui-Gon smiled faintly. “Perhaps. It is a lesson I learned late in life, Padawan, and countless times I’ve wished I’d learned it sooner. As to your earlier remark, however…”

He turned back to the hanger bay, and waited a moment for Obi-Wan to fall into step with him. “As to the aforementioned accusation, that I would call it a pointless endeavour to try to change the Council from within their ranks—I must admit, my view might have been a touch infected by my own Master’s cynicism. He was on the Council, you know.”

It took Obi-Wan far too long to make the connection. “ _Dooku?_ ”

Qui-Gon chuckled. “Indeed. He took the position when it was offered to him, immediately after Galidraan. I suspect Grandmaster Tyvokka felt that my Master would benefit from the experience, or at the very least he would stop telling the Council what they were doing wrong and offer some—more _constructive_ advice instead.”

“Ah. And did he?”

Qui-Gon shrugged. “Perhaps he did, at that. But the thing to understand about Dooku—he was never a man of half-measures: to him, a partial success was never truly a success. It is impossible to micromanage every cog in something as complicated as the Order’s machinery. He did his level best, I’m sure, but in the end he failed to impose his vision upon them. So in about two years he stepped down.”

Qui-Gon’s voice was neutral, but Obi-Wan could hear the distaste in his words, and an old hurt that tugged at his heart. He drifted closer and slipped his fingers into Qui-Gon’s hand, intertwined them until they were palm to palm. Qui-Gon sighed, and squeezed back, gratitude warming the Force between them.

“In any case, I hope I didn’t leave you with that impression of the High Council. I tried not to,” Qui-Gon admitted. “I felt that you would understand my criticisms, if not in the moment, then at least when you started taking your own solo assignments.”

Obi-Wan let their shoulders brush together as they walked. “No cynicism here. Just uncertainty. The Force offers me no direction in this.”

“Perhaps because such decisions ought to be made when sober,” Qui-Gon teased.

“’M not _that_ drunk,” Obi-Wan muttered, while privately thinking that he was just drunk enough to melt under that smile. Maybe even drunk enough to—no, he wouldn’t do that.

“As you say,” Qui-Gon agreed, amused. “In any case you should sleep on it.”

“I have to give them my answer soon.” Obi-Wan sighed. “Before my leave ends, certainly.”

“Your mandated medical leave,” Qui-Gon noted. “In part, I think, the offer was motivated by the desire to keep you close, and keep you grounded for a bit longer.”

Obi-Wan grimaced. “I can’t lead my men from a chair.”

“This solution is not ideal; it is a decision made at the expense of your men, and it only adds to the responsibilities you bear already. But I cannot deny my own purely selfish desire to keep you safe and close.”

“If anyone would know that ‘safe’ and ‘close’ are not necessarily the same thing…”

“Even so,” Qui-Gon replied mildly, letting Obi-Wan enter the turbolift ahead of him. “But in the end, all this talk of motivation and responsibility obscures the fact that of all the people ready to take the Council seat, I know no one better than you, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan had taken up a position against the far wall of the lift, resting his head against it. At those words, he deigned to crack one eye open and arched a dubious eyebrow. “You are biased, Master Jinn,” he drawled, and closed his eyes again.

“Oh, undoubtedly. But that does not mean I am not also right.”

He could hear the warmth in that wonderful voice, in the way it had fallen to a gentle rumble. “Tease,” Obi-Wan complained, almost all of his brain focused now on the task of keeping himself upright while his knees turned to jello. The night air might have sobered him slightly, but now all that brandy was rushing back with a vengeance.

“Not a bit of it,” his former Master said, and there was such warmth, such fondness in it, that Obi-Wan almost melted after all.

He barely heard the lift chime moments later. He did hear Qui-Gon’s soft sigh as his Master gently nudged him up off the wall, and tried to support him. “I c’n walk,” Obi-Wan protested vaguely, thinking of the old injury, the scarring—

“It hasn’t hurt so much in years, love, don’t worry about me.”

Obi-Wan frowned, and tried to pry his eyes open. “Still does, though, doesn’t it?”

“It’s fine,” Qui-Gon insisted, “we’re almost there.”

Obi-Wan said nothing to that, and let himself be steered along down the dimly lit hallway. Eventually, Qui-Gon stopped, and Obi-Wan heard the chime of the palm-print reader, the swish of the door.

“Ahsoka will be wondering where I am,” he said, as Qui-Gon ushered him in.

“I’ll send her a message. Sit here.”

Obi-Wan sat, as directed, and instantly sank into familiar softness. “I think it missed me.”

Qui-Gon’s laugh rumbled warmly in his ears.

“Very likely. Nobody sleeps on it anymore.”

Qui-Gon’s hands were at his boots—removing his boots for him. “I can do that,” Obi-Wan protested.

“Really.”

The mild challenge, the sense of Qui-Gon settling back on his heels made Obi-Wan smile. “Really,” he said, and instantly loosened all of the buckles.

Qui-Gon snorted. “Brat. Did I not teach you about frivolous use of the Force?”

“Wasn’t friv’lous,” Obi-Wan half-slurred, bending forward to slip the boots off, “was— _oh—_ ”

He _hoped_ that was Qui-Gon’s forehead, and not the bridge of his nose. “I’m sor—”

“Easy,” Qui-Gon said, sounding only slightly pained. “I know I taught you to be mindful of your surroundings, imp.”

Obi-Wan blinked his eyes open with an effort.

The room was mostly dark—the only source of light was streaming in from the kitchen. Qui-Gon looked less pained than amused, thankfully. His eyes danced as he watched Obi-Wan, as if searching his face for something.

“Still need me to put you under?”

Obi-Wan sighed. “And then you’ll leave me all alone out here?”

He regretted his words instantly, seeing the flicker of a heartbroken expression on Qui-Gon’s face. But when he would have tried to reassure him, Qui-Gon’s hands covered his own and completely derailed his train of thought.

“I am here with you, love,” Qui-Gon said softly.

Obi-Wan hummed, leaning forward to rest his brow gently against Qui-Gon’s. “Love you too.”

Qui-Gon stopped breathing.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me again, please. When you’re sober.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Loved you for years, Qui. No amount of brandy could possibly change that.”

“Mm, no, but you might love me more if I bring you a glass of water and some painkillers, hm?”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Maybe a little,” he acknowledged. “Drop-in-an-ocean sort of thing.”

Qui-Gon’s hands tightened on his. “What did I ever do to deserve a person like you in my life?”

Silly question, Obi-Wan thought. He made an effort to pull his brain back together to answer it.

“Isn’ there this…. philosophical argument, that the concept of ‘deserving’ is based in morality, which is a purely sentient concept, and not, therefore, applicable to the Force?”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes again in time to see Qui-Gon make an absolutely disgusted face—and to nonetheless entirely fail to hide his amusement.

“What did we say about debating philosophy while drunk?” Qui-Gon said, with a note of complaint in his voice.

“’S the best time to do it.”

Qui-Gon laughed, low and rich. “Then save it for when both of us are drunk, please.”

Obi-Wan watched as the Jedi Master rose to his feet and, with a gentle squeeze to Obi-Wan’s hands, let go. One of those large, warm hands came up to his cheek, fingers sliding into his hair. Qui-Gon gazed down at him fondly, lightly trailing his thumb along Obi-Wan’s cheekbone. He stood like that for a long moment, then sighed and bent down to press a kiss to Obi-Wan’s forehead.

“Don’t wander off,” Qui-Gon murmured against his skin, and wandered off himself. Obi-Wan tried not to be disappointed by that.

A few minutes later, he was back—as promised, with a tall glass of water in hand. “Drink that,” he directed Obi-Wan gently, pressing the cool glass into his hand.

“Ah, just like old times,” Obi-Wan snickered.

Qui-Gon sat down beside him and leaned in close again. “Thankfully, with one hundred percent less Quinlan Vos corrupting my Padawan’s tastes with his horrible drinks.”

Obi-Wan pulled a face and shuddered reflexively. “Don’ remind me. Corrupt, hells—more like burn all the taste buds out of your skull.”

Qui-Gon chuckled, and wrapped an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, nudging the hand that held the glass up to encourage him to finish. Obi-Wan grumbled, but did so anyway. He moved to get up, to bring the empty glass to the kitchen, but Qui-Gon simply plucked it from his grasp and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table.

“So,” Obi-Wan said, trying to sound casual, “no arguing philosophy, no love confessions while drunk. Do I have to put off snuggling too?”

Qui-Gon glanced back at him, surprised. “Oh, imp,” he sighed, sitting back and wrapping Obi-Wan in his arms—and _Force,_ Obi-Wan hadn’t felt this in _so long._ A hollow, aching space in his soul filled with every breath he took, every breath that brought him the scent of green things, of Qui-Gon’s hair, of his skin.

“Not for this,” Qui-Gon murmured, lips brushing against Obi-Wan’s temple, words sinking into his soul like water into parched earth. “I should have told you a thousand times before: I love you, my Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan kissed him.

Somewhere in the process of shifting around while trying to stay as much in contact as humanly possible, Obi-Wan ended up exactly where he’d wanted to be, which was wrapped up in Qui-Gon’s arms, straddling his lap. When Qui-Gon pulled back, whispering his name and running his hands up Obi-Wan’s back, it was suddenly too much. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in the crook of Qui-Gon’s neck, hiding an involuntary whine in his skin, reaching up to undo the leather tie of the half-tail with one hand. He wanted to sink his fingers into that warm long hair, wanted to kiss the skin under his lips—the temptation was impossible to resist.

So he didn’t. His fingers moved without conscious thought, massaging Qui-Gon’s scalp. In response Qui-Gon _purred,_ a deep rumble starting in his chest, and somehow managed to pull Obi-Wan closer.

For one long and blissful moment, Obi-Wan lost himself in kissing the skin under Qui-Gon’s ear repeatedly, teasing out windblown knots in the long strands of his Master’s hair.

Then, with a groan, Qui-Gon gently pulled himself back, leaving barely an inch of space between them.

“And this,” he said, whisper-soft and beautifully breathless, “is why I wanted to wait.”

Obi-Wan chuckled, and pressed his face back into Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “Oh?”

His limbs felt leaden-heavy, as though someone had found a way to crank up Coruscant’s gravity. But his mind felt like it would float away on so much bliss, if he didn’t cling tight to Qui-Gon’s shoulders right now.

“I didn’t want—if I ever got up the nerve for it, I wouldn’t have wanted our first kiss to be fueled by a bottle of brandy. Admittedly very expensive, but all the same.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Try ‘twelve years of frustration’, then. Please, Qui—just let me stay the night, I’ll—”

He was seized and pulled in close, hugged so fiercely his ribs creaked.

“What made you think I was letting you leave? No, don’t answer that. Just—be with me.”

Obi-Wan wanted to say something, to string together some elusive, slippery words that kept skittering away from his grasp like eels in dark Malastarian waters. Qui-Gon’s hands were making short work of what was left of his coherence, anyway, counting his ribs and vertebrae as though they were worth their weight in gold, dragging firmly down his flanks, thumbs tracing his sides and the angular point of his hip bones, pressing into the crease of his thighs even through layers of clothing. Obi-Wan shuddered.

Qui-Gon ducked his head, treating Obi-Wan to the scrape of his beard under his ear, teeth on the tendon of his neck, a damp kiss and hot breath as he whispered _please, love,_ into Obi-Wan’s skin.

_“Yesss.”_

It burst from Obi-Wan on a gasp, and only seconds later he felt those large, wonderful hands on his ass, supporting him as Qui-Gon suddenly rose from the couch. Obi-Wan briefly hoped the movement was Force-assisted—he wasn’t light enough to cart around like a clingy youngling anymore.

Qui-Gon chuckled, apparently catching the thought. The way the low and beautiful sound reverberated between them, though, Obi-Wan couldn’t hold on to a single idea for more than a second. He couldn’t even track how they’d gotten from the couch to Qui-Gon’s bed, but he felt the soft-firm support of a familiar mattress against his back, the cool sheets and downy coverlet under his chin. Or where his outer tunics had gone. Or his belt.

“‘M about to fall ‘sleep on you,” he admitted, deeply chagrined.

“I’ll still be here in the morning,” Qui-Gon assured him, from somewhere just above and to his right.

In bed with him, Obi-Wan realised, and smiled. The hand on Obi-Wan’s face was infinitely gentle, and he couldn’t help but nuzzle into it. It was worth it, it would always be worth it, to hear his Master’s joyful rumbling laugh.

Qui-Gon settled in beside him, close enough that Obi-Wan could feel the even breaths stirring his hair. For a long, floating moment, there was silence, and a sleepy even rhythm. He lingered on the brink of consciousness, almost tipping over.

“Stay with me, Obi-Wan.” He just barely heard the words whispered into the crown of his head. “Not just for tonight.”

Obi-Wan smiled, and burrowed further into Qui-Gon’s arms. “For always,” he murmured into Qui-Gon’s skin, and felt a boundless warmth bloom in his mind and spread to the edges of his universe. He sank into it, breathing deep, losing himself in Qui-Gon’s scent, and that bottomless welcoming dark.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A surprise ficling for y’all today ^^


End file.
